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OT: Transit Passengers in the Sky

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  • sharani_sharani
    At 6 a.m. this morning I brought a friend to the airport and got home with plenty of time to spare before heading in to work. Last night s full moon (called
    Message 1 of 4 , Feb 3, 2007
      At 6 a.m. this morning I brought a friend to the airport and got home
      with plenty of time to spare before heading in to work. Last night's
      full moon (called the Snow Moon according to my Susan Branch calendar)
      still shone brightly as I picked her up in the dark.

      As I headed home from the airport a half hour or so later, I was
      treated to the moon and sun's overlapping presence in the sky. The
      moon lingered, delaying its curfew so that it could watch the
      paintbrush technique of the sun as the sky's blush began. Darkness
      still played bodyguard to the moon and its yet full round majesty
      parallelled the sunrise's emerging splendour. Underneath their
      finery, I think the sun was doing jumping jacks towards Heaven and the
      moon readied for a game of hide and seek.

      Watching the play of the two together around me as I returned home, I
      offered a small moment of thanks that my early morning errand allowed
      me to watch these transit passengers in the sky. Their juxtaposition
      made each the more beautiful than either one alone could have ever been.

      Sharani
    • kamalika_gyorgyjakab
      I loved this message, Sharani! I actually think you were offered this early morning sight to inspire you to put in writing all you saw, and in what eloquent
      Message 2 of 4 , Feb 9, 2007
        I loved this message, Sharani! I actually think you were offered
        this early morning sight to inspire you to put in writing all you
        saw, and in what eloquent writing!
        A message like this can mean so much to me, thank you!

        It also reminds me of one of the most beautiful poems (by Dezso
        Kosztolanyi) ever written in Hungarian: Dawn Drunkenness.
        It is very hard to resume or translate it
        (most of our poetry is quite untranslatable, alas, alas...)

        It is about the poet himself who stops working at 3 a.m. and then
        turns in his bed sleepless until he gets up and goes to the window.
        The rest is an experience as catartic as yours, he sees humans
        dreaming their little dreams in the dark-grey town while

        "The stars are quietly radiant, they rise and fall
        like breathing spirits, the night is mild and autumnal,
        such as precedes a climatical
        change before the cold, those millions
        of stars which once beheld the battalions
        of Hannibal show equal interest
        in me beside my window, here in Budapest. (...)

        "So long I waited,
        gazing at these wonders unabated
        I failed to notice how in the east the sparkling
        stars grew pink, and darkling
        flickered, and in the distance a vast beam
        of light sprang up and gleamed
        upon a gate, a heavenly palatial
        flame-invested portal,
        then a tremor,
        and a host of guests emerge out of the dimmer
        shadows of the twilight, an entrancing
        air of music and dancing
        the hall awash with light in
        which the host, a genial titan,
        a dignitary of huge dimensions
        stands on the stairway bestowing his attentions
        on departing guests (...)

        "into the rocking darkness of the coach which speeds,
        drawn by fairy steeds,
        along the festive, holiday
        boulevards of the Milky Way,
        to join a train of coaches in a golden rain
        of confetti, while the horses throw
        a golden shower sparks up as they go.

        "Mouth gaping wide
        I stood, and cried out in delight,
        There's dancing in the sky, tonight and every night,
        and suddenly it dawned on me,
        I understood the ancent mystery
        whereby the sky-folk turn
        homeward every night and burn
        along the orbital, seraphic
        highways of immortal traffic.(...)

        "Look here, there's nothing to believe in,
        I also realise there is time for leaving,
        but in my racing heart one string held firm and bent
        to song, and I began to sing the firmament,
        that unlocated Unlocatable,
        out of reach and unobtainable
        in life or death. My muscles slacken,
        already, my friend intimate
        with much more dust and clay than I can reckon,
        yet I was a guest at the party of a great
        anonimous potentate."
        (translation by George Szirtes)


        Well, when I so rarely get the chance to sleep somewhere far from
        civilazion and light pollution, and when I get a chace to see a
        billion stars above me, this is how I equally feel that I am guest
        of the selfsame giant anonimous potentate.
        I hope you liked the poem,

        Love and joy,

        Kamalika



        --- In Sri_Chinmoy_Inspiration@yahoogroups.com, sharani_sharani
        <no_reply@...> wrote:
        >
        > At 6 a.m. this morning I brought a friend to the airport and got
        home with plenty of time to spare before heading in to work. Last
        night's full moon (called the Snow Moon according to my Susan Branch
        calendar) still shone brightly as I picked her up in the dark.
        As I headed home from the airport a half hour or so later, I was
        treated to the moon and sun's overlapping presence in the sky. The
        moon lingered, delaying its curfew so that it could watch the
        paintbrush technique of the sun as the sky's blush began. Darkness
        still played bodyguard to the moon and its yet full round majesty
        parallelled the sunrise's emerging splendour. Underneath their
        finery, I think the sun was doing jumping jacks towards Heaven and
        the moon readied for a game of hide and seek.
        Watching the play of the two together around me as I returned home,
        I offered a small moment of thanks that my early morning errand
        allowed me to watch these transit passengers in the sky. Their
        juxtaposition made each the more beautiful than either one alone
        could have ever been.
        Sharani
      • sharani_sharani
        Hi Kamalika, I always enjoy getting introduced to notable poets from various countries. I couldn t find much of his poetry in English on the Web but did find
        Message 3 of 4 , Feb 11, 2007
          Hi Kamalika,
          I always enjoy getting introduced to notable poets from various
          countries. I couldn't find much of his poetry in English on the Web
          but did find this English translation of Dawn Drunkenness side by side
          with the Hungarian so that I could read the complete poem.
          http://www.brindin.com/pokoshaj.htm

          I also am in the midst of discovering a notable Turkish poet named
          Nazim Hikmet. He is considered to be one of the foremost poets of the
          20th century but spent much of lis life in prison and exiled in Russia
          because of his political belifefs. Somehow this profound poem talking
          about the sky, stars, etc. by him made me think of Kosztolyani as well.

          Things I Didn't Know I Loved
          by Nazim Hikmet
          Translated by Mutlu Konuk and Randy Blasing


          it's 1962 March 28th

          I'm sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train

          night is falling

          I never knew I liked

          night descending like a tired bird on a smoky wet plain

          I don't like

          comparing nightfall to a tired bird



          I didn't know I loved the earth

          can someone who hasn't worked the earth love it

          I've never worked the earth

          it must be my only Platonic love



          and here I've loved rivers all this time

          whether motionless like this they curl skirting the hills

          European hills crowned with chateaus

          or whether stretched out flat as far as the eye can see

          I know you can't wash in the same river even once

          I know the river will bring new lights you'll never see

          I know we live slightly longer than a horse but not nearly as long as
          a crow

          I know this has troubled people before

          and will trouble those after me

          I know all this has been said a thousand times before

          and will be said after me



          I didn't know I loved the sky

          cloudy or clear

          the blue vault Andrei studied on his back at Borodino

          in prison I translated both volumes of War and Peace into Turkish

          I hear voices

          not from the blue vault but from the yard

          the guards are beating someone again

          I didn't know I loved trees

          bare beeches near Moscow in Peredelkino

          they come upon me in winter noble and modest

          beeches are Russian the way poplars are Turkish

          "the poplars of Izmir

          losing their leaves. . .

          they call me The Knife. . .

          lover like a young tree. . .

          I blow stately mansions sky-high"

          in the Ilgaz woods in 1920 I tied an embroidered linen handkerchief

          to a pine bough for luck



          I never knew I loved roads

          even the asphalt kind

          Vera's behind the wheel we're driving from Moscow to the Crimea

          Koktebele

          formerly "Goktepé ili" in Turkish

          the two of us inside a closed box

          the world flows past on both sides distant and mute

          I was never so close to anyone in my life

          bandits stopped me on the red road between Bolu and Geredé

          when I was eighteen

          apart from my life I didn't have anything in the wagon they could take

          and at eighteen our lives are what we value least

          I've written this somewhere before

          wading through a dark muddy street I'm going to the shadow play

          Ramazan night

          a paper lantern leading the way

          maybe nothing like this ever happened

          maybe I read it somewhere an eight-year-old boy

          going to the shadow play

          Ramazan night in Istanbul holding his grandfather's hand

          his grandfather has on a fez and is wearing the fur coat

          with a sable collar over his robe

          and there's a lantern in the servant's hand

          and I can't contain myself for joy

          flowers come to mind for some reason

          poppies cactuses jonquils

          in the jonquil garden in Kadikoy Istanbul I kissed Marika

          fresh almonds on her breath

          I was seventeen

          my heart on a swing touched the sky

          I didn't know I loved flowers

          friends sent me three red carnations in prison



          I just remembered the stars

          I love them too

          whether I'm floored watching them from below

          or whether I'm flying at their side



          I have some questions for the cosmonauts

          were the stars much bigger

          did they look like huge jewels on black velvet

          or apricots on orange

          did you feel proud to get closer to the stars

          I saw color photos of the cosmos in Ogonek magazine now don't

          be upset comrades but nonfigurative shall we say or abstract

          well some of them looked just like such paintings which is to

          say they were terribly figurative and concrete

          my heart was in my mouth looking at them

          they are our endless desire to grasp things

          seeing them I could even think of death and not feel at all sad

          I never knew I loved the cosmos



          snow flashes in front of my eyes

          both heavy wet steady snow and the dry whirling kind

          I didn't know I liked snow



          I never knew I loved the sun

          even when setting cherry-red as now

          in Istanbul too it sometimes sets in postcard colors

          but you aren't about to paint it that way

          I didn't know I loved the sea

          except the Sea of Azov

          or how much



          I didn't know I loved clouds

          whether I'm under or up above them

          whether they look like giants or shaggy white beasts



          moonlight the falsest the most languid the most petit-bourgeois

          strikes me

          I like it



          I didn't know I liked rain

          whether it falls like a fine net or splatters against the glass my

          heart leaves me tangled up in a net or trapped inside a drop

          and takes off for uncharted countries I didn't know I loved

          rain but why did I suddenly discover all these passions sitting

          by the window on the Prague-Berlin train

          is it because I lit my sixth cigarette

          one alone could kill me

          is it because I'm half dead from thinking about someone back in Moscow

          her hair straw-blond eyelashes blue



          the train plunges on through the pitch-black night

          I never knew I liked the night pitch-black

          sparks fly from the engine

          I didn't know I loved sparks

          I didn't know I loved so many things and I had to wait until sixty

          to find it out sitting by the window on the Prague-Berlin train

          watching the world disappear as if on a journey of no return



          19 April 1962

          Moscow

          This poem was written one year before his death. Isn't it extraordinary?

          Sharani


          -- In Sri_Chinmoy_Inspiration@yahoogroups.com, kamalika_gyorgyjakab
          <no_reply@...> wrote:
          >
          > I loved this message, Sharani! I actually think you were offered
          > this early morning sight to inspire you to put in writing all you
          > saw, and in what eloquent writing!
          > A message like this can mean so much to me, thank you!
          >
          > It also reminds me of one of the most beautiful poems (by Dezso
          > Kosztolanyi) ever written in Hungarian: Dawn Drunkenness.
          > It is very hard to resume or translate it
          > (most of our poetry is quite untranslatable, alas, alas...)
          >
          > It is about the poet himself who stops working at 3 a.m. and then
          > turns in his bed sleepless until he gets up and goes to the window.
          > The rest is an experience as catartic as yours, he sees humans
          > dreaming their little dreams in the dark-grey town while
          >
          > "The stars are quietly radiant, they rise and fall
          > like breathing spirits, the night is mild and autumnal,
          > such as precedes a climatical
          > change before the cold, those millions
          > of stars which once beheld the battalions
          > of Hannibal show equal interest
          > in me beside my window, here in Budapest. (...)
          >
          > "So long I waited,
          > gazing at these wonders unabated
          > I failed to notice how in the east the sparkling
          > stars grew pink, and darkling
          > flickered, and in the distance a vast beam
          > of light sprang up and gleamed
          > upon a gate, a heavenly palatial
          > flame-invested portal,
          > then a tremor,
          > and a host of guests emerge out of the dimmer
          > shadows of the twilight, an entrancing
          > air of music and dancing
          > the hall awash with light in
          > which the host, a genial titan,
          > a dignitary of huge dimensions
          > stands on the stairway bestowing his attentions
          > on departing guests (...)
          >
          > "into the rocking darkness of the coach which speeds,
          > drawn by fairy steeds,
          > along the festive, holiday
          > boulevards of the Milky Way,
          > to join a train of coaches in a golden rain
          > of confetti, while the horses throw
          > a golden shower sparks up as they go.
          >
          > "Mouth gaping wide
          > I stood, and cried out in delight,
          > There's dancing in the sky, tonight and every night,
          > and suddenly it dawned on me,
          > I understood the ancent mystery
          > whereby the sky-folk turn
          > homeward every night and burn
          > along the orbital, seraphic
          > highways of immortal traffic.(...)
          >
          > "Look here, there's nothing to believe in,
          > I also realise there is time for leaving,
          > but in my racing heart one string held firm and bent
          > to song, and I began to sing the firmament,
          > that unlocated Unlocatable,
          > out of reach and unobtainable
          > in life or death. My muscles slacken,
          > already, my friend intimate
          > with much more dust and clay than I can reckon,
          > yet I was a guest at the party of a great
          > anonimous potentate."
          > (translation by George Szirtes)
          >
          >
          > Well, when I so rarely get the chance to sleep somewhere far from
          > civilazion and light pollution, and when I get a chace to see a
          > billion stars above me, this is how I equally feel that I am guest
          > of the selfsame giant anonimous potentate.
          > I hope you liked the poem,
          >
          > Love and joy,
          >
          > Kamalika
          >
          >
          >
          > --- In Sri_Chinmoy_Inspiration@yahoogroups.com, sharani_sharani
          > <no_reply@> wrote:
          > >
          > > At 6 a.m. this morning I brought a friend to the airport and got
          > home with plenty of time to spare before heading in to work. Last
          > night's full moon (called the Snow Moon according to my Susan Branch
          > calendar) still shone brightly as I picked her up in the dark.
          > As I headed home from the airport a half hour or so later, I was
          > treated to the moon and sun's overlapping presence in the sky. The
          > moon lingered, delaying its curfew so that it could watch the
          > paintbrush technique of the sun as the sky's blush began. Darkness
          > still played bodyguard to the moon and its yet full round majesty
          > parallelled the sunrise's emerging splendour. Underneath their
          > finery, I think the sun was doing jumping jacks towards Heaven and
          > the moon readied for a game of hide and seek.
          > Watching the play of the two together around me as I returned home,
          > I offered a small moment of thanks that my early morning errand
          > allowed me to watch these transit passengers in the sky. Their
          > juxtaposition made each the more beautiful than either one alone
          > could have ever been.
          > Sharani
          >
        • kamalika_gyorgyjakab
          Woaw, another pearl of poetry, for which I am grateful, Sharani. I hope I won t remain indebted to you for long and will come up with a matching literary giant
          Message 4 of 4 , Feb 15, 2007
            Woaw, another pearl of poetry, for which I am grateful, Sharani.
            I hope I won't remain indebted to you for long and will come up with a
            matching literary giant again. As soon as my workload permits to search
            for available English translations of our literary heritage.
            Until then, I wish you splendid sunsets and starrises.
            Kamalika



            --- In Sri_Chinmoy_Inspiration@yahoogroups.com, sharani_sharani
            <no_reply@...> wrote:
            >
            > Hi Kamalika,
            > I always enjoy getting introduced to notable poets from various
            countries. I couldn't find much of his poetry in English on the Web but
            did find this English translation of Dawn Drunkenness side by side with
            the Hungarian so that I could read the complete poem.
            http://www.brindin.com/pokoshaj.htm

            I also am in the midst of discovering a notable Turkish poet named
            Nazim Hikmet. He is considered to be one of the foremost poets of the
            20th century but spent much of lis life in prison and exiled in Russia
            because of his political belifefs. Somehow this profound poem talking
            about the sky, stars, etc. by him made me think of Kosztolyani as well.
            This poem was written one year before his death. Isn't it extraordinary?
            Sharani
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